May There Never Be An End
by Pavlov's Belle
Summary: Post Season 2: Tom vanishes with Landry, but the family refuse to give up on him. TomxAnya.
1. A Reckless Heart

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Survivors, but I really wish I did.

**Author's Note: **This story takes place after the events of Season 2. I am completely devastated by the BBC's decision to scrap a third season so instead of storming their headquarters and setting someone on fire, I decided to write fanfic instead!

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><p><strong>May There Never Be An End<strong>

_A Survivors Fanfic_

_Written by Silksteel_

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><p>They searched the area surrounding the air field for weeks, turning out every single building they came across. They walked through miles of woodland; drove down every road, from the motorways to the winding single lane farm tracks. There were plenty of bodies to be found, but none of them were the one she was looking for. It was typical, of course. Tom had always found her, not the other way around - except for the first time they met.<p>

As she stumbled out of yet another empty building, Anya felt herself coming apart at the seams. If she hadn't known he was injured, she could have just assumed that he'd finally given up on her, that she'd finally pushed him away with her determination to deny the truth of their harsh new world. But Al and Najid had informed her most completely and now she couldn't get the thought out of her head that he might be lying somewhere alone and scared, dying, thinking that he'd been abandoned by the very people he'd been protecting for months.

'You alright, Anya?'

She was sitting on the front steps when Al found her, staring down at her feet.

'Nothing here,' she murmured, clasping her hands together and pressing them against her forehead. There was so much of Britain and Tom could be anywhere in it. She felt hopeless. She felt useless. She felt Al taking a seat next to her and putting his arm around her shoulders.

'Anya,' he said slowly, and she knew, somehow, that he was about to say the very thing she didn't want to hear.

'Don't you _dare_,' she snarled, leaping to her feet and backing off from him. 'Don't you dare tell me he's dead, we've got no proof -'

'Anya,' he protested, holding up his hands. 'Anya, that wasn't what I was going to say.' Al gave her his trademark inscrutable look; since Sarah's death, he'd grown up unimaginably. 'Maybe...he doesn't _want_to be found,' he raised an eyebrow. 'You fought. Maybe he thinks you'd be better off without him.'

Even in her darkest moment, she could tell that Al didn't really believe in what he was saying. Tom had made no pretence of how he felt about her; he'd made himself vulnerable to her rejection and she'd taken advantage of it over and over again. He'd come back every time with the knowledge she needed his protection - something that she had denied with every fibre of her being, right up until this moment. Tom had looked out for her, guarded her freedom, saved her life more times than she cared to remember. Despite her inability to accept him the way he was, he'd continued to fight for her, and Anya knew he wouldn't abandon her now.

She looked at him, the tears welling in her eyes. 'I have to believe he's alive,' she whispered. 'I have to. I can't live with myself knowing he might have died thinking we rejected him for being who he was.'

The tears spilled down her cheeks as Al rose quickly, folded her into his arms and pulled her into an angular embrace. He was so much thinner than Tom, less muscular, less solid. 'I know,' he murmured, stroking her hair. Of all the family, Al knew the best what she was going through - but Sarah had died understanding she was loved. Tom...he had no idea what he was leaving behind.

* * *

><p>'We have to go, Anya,' Greg told her softly, the next morning as they assembled, dressed, in the central square of the caravan park they were staying at.<p>

The doctor shook her head wildly. 'No. No _way_ I'm leaving without Tom.'

'Anya,' Abby said softly, coming over to grip her gently around her arms, that comforting Scottish lilt making her feel like crying all over again. 'We all want to find him as much as you do, but we can't stay here. We're out of food and water, and it's starting to get colder. We need to settle in somewhere for the winter.'

Looking around at her family, she could feel herself weakening. It wasn't fair to ask them to stay and look for Tom; they didn't owe him as much as she did. They'd done everything they could reasonably be expected to, under the circumstances. She couldn't ask for any more than that.

'You go,' she said softly. 'I'm going to stay here. Keep looking.'

'Anya -'

'I _have_ to, Abby,' she wailed. 'This is _my _fault. I pushed him away and he left, injured, rather than come back to us.' Dear god, it felt like she hadn't stopped crying in weeks, and here she was at it again, shaking in Abby's embrace whilst the rest of them looked on helplessly. 'I have to find him,' she whispered. 'Even if it's his - his body. I have to know for sure.'

It wasn't difficult to understand. The virus had given them closure on their old lives, but the same couldn't be said of the people they met and befriended and loved in this new one. Anya wasn't stupid, it was her job to know what a gunshot wound could do to a person if left untreated. It was just that...well, Tom seemed to be charmed, in a way. As if fate was giving him a chance to atone for his many sins by keeping him fit and well to the pivotal point - but she thought she know it when it came. She thought she'd be there, have the chance to say goodbye. Whatever he'd done, he didn't deserve to fade into memory.

'What about Samantha?'

It seemed like everyone in the group turned, simultaneously, to look at Najid. He smiled shyly. 'Well, we can't do what we did for Abby. This place is too big. But Samantha had that idea, about satellites.'

Abby had explained it to him, of course, and to Najid it probably seemed like television was going to be the saviour of them all. Then again, that was how the scientists found Abby. And apparently, how Dexter found Samantha. Everything in her baulked at asking Samantha for her help after everything that had happened, but Anya couldn't be too proud, not when Tom's life was at stake. If there was even the faintest chance he might see it, she'd give it a try.

'It's be more helpful than blindly roaming the countryside,' Al pointed out, his motives not entirely honourable since he didn't want to be the only grieving weirdo in the group.

'We could leave a note here, sprayed on the runway,' Najid suggested, warming to his topic. 'Just in case he comes back here looking for us.'

'And tell him what?' Greg asked sardonically.

'That we've gone home,' Anya said at last. 'Dexter's dead. The warehouse is public property. And Samantha can keep an eye on us from where she is.'

* * *

><p>Between the air field and Samantha's place, Anya barely said two words. Already she was second-guessing herself, having regrets. The thought that Tom might need her, that she was abandoning him, weighed heavily on her. No matter what the others said, she couldn't get past it, not when she was forced to replay all the things she'd said to him over in her mind. He'd been right about everything, from the guns to Fiona Douglas, to the new world order. Anya had told him she wouldn't change, without realising that she already had. Knowing Tom had changed her - for better or worse, it didn't matter. She was his, completely.<p>

'How are we going to do this?' Abby asked as they pulled up to the gates. They'd left the others at home, just Abby, Anya and Peter along for the ride. In some perverse way, Abby wanted to brandish the existence of her son like a trophy in the war with Samantha, but Anya didn't care.

'Just let me do the talking,' she said softly. 'She might not like Tom, but I have something to barter with.'

Abby didn't reply. They both knew that knowledge was the most valuable thing Anya possessed. Her medical ability was something that couldn't be learnt from a book, it had to be mentored, which meant that she alone would be the founder of a generation of doctors in the new world. With Samantha's hopes for their future, it was an offer she couldn't afford to refuse.

The gate goons let them through with little preamble given that they weren't threatening or armed, and Abby pulled smoothly into the courtyard of Samantha's project, killing the engine and hopping out.

'Abby,' came the same smooth voice Anya thought she heard in her nightmares. 'And this must be Peter. It's so good to meet you at last.'

Samantha looked different, somehow. Older. Haggard. She still had the same steely glint in her eye, but it wasn't quite as potent. Anya wondered if, without Dexter and Gavin, she found it harder to keep the control she so craved.

'Ms. Willis,' Anya cut in before Abby managed to remind Samantha their family was responsible for almost all the bad things that had befallen her new society. 'We're here to make a deal.'

Samantha raised her perfectly arched eyebrows. 'Oh? Don't tell me you want to join us?'

Anya could barely keep the snarl from her voice, so she shook her head as compromise. 'Can you gather everyone to the courtroom?' she asked through politely gritted teeth. 'This is something your whole community should vote on.' Samantha would attempt to swindle, of course, but perhaps she would be more easily swayed by her public. Anya was about to give them the offer of a lifetime.

* * *

><p>'Tom is a murderer. He <em>killed<em> Gavin. He killed Dexter. And God knows how many other survivors have fallen foul of him since. Why on Earth should we help you bring him back?'

It was going about as well as could be expected so far, but Anya wasn't troubled. She kept her expression neutral and stood firm, one hand on Abby's shoulder.

'Because I'm willing to trade. I will train you a doctor, someone who can keep all of you fit and healthy.'

An excited murmur broke out among Samantha's followers, and Anya could have wept with relief. She was banking her whole scheme on them not having located another medical professional and, thankfully, she was right.

'Well, that's a very interesting offer, Anya,' the dark woman said slowly, her voice taut with caution. 'But we've been managing well enough so far.'

Anya scowled. 'I know you don't want Tom back,' she hissed. 'And there's no guarantee he's still alive, so that should put _your _mind at rest. But refusing to help me is madness.' She turned to the gathered congregation. 'Any of you know how to dig shrapnel out of a chest wound?' The people, ranging from the tiniest girl to the oldest grandmother, fell silent. 'No one? How about reattaching a severed finger? Administering a vaccine? Performing life saving CPR?'

Silence.

Vindicated, Anya nodded. 'You have weapons here, and you perform hard physical labour every day. One stray shot, one missed swing of a hatchet, and you're at the mercy of your own vulnerabilities.' She looked at Samantha. 'You can dictate how these people live, but do you really want to be the one dictating how they die?' Stepping closer, so close to the other woman she could smell the whisky on her breath, Anya lowered her voice. 'I'm offering you something priceless,' she whispered. 'And all you have to do is broadcast a message.'

'And if it doesn't work?'

'Doesn't change anything,' Anya said firmly. 'You still get a doctor.'

Samantha raised her eyebrows. 'How can I trust you on that?'

The nerve of the woman. Anya was almost tempted to tell her to go to hell, but she thought of Tom, of all the things he'd done for her, and laughed coldly instead. 'May I remind you, Ms. Willis, that we are _not _the ones with a history of going back on our word,' she told the older woman snidely. 'But you don't have to make the decision alone - why not let your constituents decide? Since this _is_a democracy, after all.'

Public pressure was the one thing she _knew_ would sway Samantha, and as she turned to gather the vote, it was an overwhelming victory. She couldn't be seen to refuse on the basis of her own prejudices. Anya smiled, her expression brittle. Winning the battle was only half the story. Now, she had to fight the war.

* * *

><p>'My name is Anya Raczynski, and I'm looking for a man named Tom Price.'<p>

Anya clutched her hands tightly together, lips trembling but dry-eyed as the video ran. This was their last hope - if they got no response from this, she'd have to give up the search and admit he wasn't coming back. But not yet.

'Tom...if you see this...please come home,' she pleaded, voice wavering. 'We need you. We - we _miss_ you. _I_ miss you.'

Catching hold of herself before she started bawling again, Anya nodded once to the camera man, and the recording ended.

'Now what?' she asked Abby who stood, arms folded, next to Samantha who looked, for all the world as if she'd been spiked with something distasteful.

Abby put an arm around her and smiled sadly. 'Now we wait. And we hope.'

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><p><strong>Final Note: <strong>This is going to be relatively short, I think. Although this is written purely for my own amusement, reviews are, as always, gratefully received.


	2. Detritus Days

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Survivors, but I really wish I did.

**Author's Note: **I've taken many liberties with this story already - working with Samantha, going back to their original home, Sarah and Bob's warehouse remaining untouched...now a potential love interest for Al, and Paddy's alive! Bear with me; this is feelgood nonsense at it's finest.

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><p><strong>May There Never Be An End<strong>

_A Survivors Fanfic_

_Written by Silksteel_

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><p>When she'd made the bargain with Samantha, she didn't think of how it might impact her life as it was. A candidate was rustled up, a former pharmacist with a reasonable background in medications if not medicine itself, and Anya was obliged to devote herself to the tuition of Sophie. She desperately wanted to be looking for Tom, to be scouring the countryside for signs of him, but her deal bound her to do this instead.<p>

As Abby, Greg and Peter packed supplies into the Landrover, she stood forlornly in the yard and watched, Al and Naj providing support from either side.

'Where are they going?' Sophie asked softly, and Anya could feel Al tensing by her side. It was unfortunate really, the girl bore little resemblance to Sarah other than her pale colouring, but Al seemed to have taken against her nonetheless. It was so unlike him - but then, who could really predict how grief would affect other people? Sophie was tall for a woman, a little on the plump side, and had a face made for smiling. Her long blond hair was an unruly mass of curls that she kept barely tamed and pinned up. She had wickedly sparkling green eyes and a firm, stubborn chin. Like he did with almost everyone, Naj had adopted her into the family without hesitation - it helped that she'd grown up on a farm and could furnish him with all sorts of chicken related trivia.

'To search out the other groups of survivors, see if they've come across any sign of Tom.'

It wasn't just a mission for Tom's sake, Anya knew that much. Greg would never waste the fuel if that were the case. Abby had told them that they needed to forge alliances with as many people as possible, to distribute the vaccine that Anya had replicated in the lab before they left; to do, in essence, what Samantha Willis had intended - but without the threat of violence and retribution.

'Are they going to be gone a long time? Is that why they're taking so much stuff?' Sophie asked - she asked a lot of things, unfortunately, which was a flaw outside what Anya was trying to teach her.

'It's for bribes,' Al said shortly, squeezing Anya's shoulder before he turned away and disappeared into the house. Abby had taken to task the uncomfortable truth of explaining to Sophie why Al was so cold with her, but Anya could see it hadn't made much difference to the other girl - she was still hurt and confused by his inability to be civil.

'Not bribes, exactly,' Anya corrected softly, for Sophie's benefit. 'It's just that...well, a lot of the people we met...they helped us, and we had nothing to give them before.'

The family were very careful not to let Sophie in on the secrets of their food source. It seemed that Dexter had retained his true colours even once he became a part of Samantha's so-called government, and had neglected to tell her about Bob and Sarah's warehouse. Why Bob hadn't done it himself was another matter entirely - but it wasn't Anya's concern. Abby, Greg and Al had worked tirelessly to relocate as many resources as possible to secure locations near their house, planning for the years before their experimentation with vegetable growing and animal-raising came to fruition.

'Alright, we're all packed,' Greg called out, mustering a smile - probably for her benefit, Anya thought. 'Now you lot, be good,' he warned. 'We don't want to come back to a pig sty.'

'Be careful out there, guys,' Anya nodded. It sounded perfunctory, but everyone knew it wasn't. They were in such a fragile place, it seemed like they had been fighting for every second since Sarah's death had ripped them apart. Now with Tom gone too, everything they had sought to protect was teetering in the balance.

At least Abby had her son back. That was something. She hadn't let him out of her sight since the exchange on the airfield; understandable on both parts since he was obviously traumatised.

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><p>'Good God,' Abby whispered, as they got closer to the city. 'What's happening to this place?'<p>

The city they'd left not so long ago was a stark reminder of an apocalypse that had become almost irrelevant to the survivors. Even the basic components of civilisation were gone. Buildings were burning, crumbled into rubble; the roads littered with detritus.

'The survivors are trying to contain the spread of disease,' Greg told her bleakly, slowing down as they entered the city limits.

'Why don't they just move?' Peter piped up from the back, the first thing he'd said since they left the house.

'People are funny like that,' Abby said softly. 'Even though they know better, they still cling to the things that are familiar, that were once safe.'

'Like we're doing with that house?' Greg asked meaningfully.

'Greg -'

'It's madness, Abby, and you know it,' he hissed. 'Making deals with Samantha, raiding from the warehouse, letting her people in -'

'If we go now, Tom might never find us,' Abby reprimanded.

'It's been weeks. We have no reason to believe he's still alive, and even if he is, he might not want to come back. We should go now, before Samantha decides we're too much of a liability.'

Abby shook her head, but didn't reply. In a way, she knew Greg was right, but she couldn't bring herself to believe that Tom was dead any more than Anya could. Her memory of their brief conversation at the valley was the worst kind of torture, knowing that he'd ended his life thinking he wasn't more than a liar and a thief. If it hadn't been for his intervention in the control tower during their showdown with Landry, she might not have Peter - and Greg might have been dead.

'He saved our lives,' she said quietly, at last. 'All of us, at one point or another. We owe it to him to wait, at least until Sophie's trained.'

As they parked up at the top of the multistorey still festooned with Naj's banner, Greg growled in submission. 'Fine. But only until she's ready. And then we head south.'

* * *

><p>'Mum, why is your name spray painted everywhere?' Peter asked as they cruised through the deserted streets, having flipped the banner to write <em>Come Home Tom <em>on it instead.

Abby smiled. 'When I was taken by Whitaker's men, Naj wanted to make sure I could find my way back.'

Peter wasn't sure what to say to that. He was amazed and a little bit awed by the new family he'd inherited when his mother found him at the airfield. At first he'd been wary of them, not understanding why they spent so long looking for the man, Tom, or why a group of strangers seemed so happy to see him. Naj had explained that they found each other on the road, that Peter's mum had kept them together and kept up the search to find him. It seemed to be a theme - no one was left behind.

'Do we even know where this pub is?' Greg asked, the exasperation in his voice clear.

'Naj said it was called the Dog and Duck. The girl, Lee, told him when they met. It can't be far.'

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><p>Abby was right, fortunately, though whether the Scottish gang would still be there - and whether they'd agree to help - remained to be seen. Greg had brought along the handgun he'd hung onto since the meeting with Landry, a tiny irony in bowing to Tom's reviled view of the world.<p>

Looking up at the battered sign, Abby took a deep breath. 'Come on, Peter. And stay close.' She lifted a basket of supplies from the bed of the Landrover and, flanked by her son - carrying two canisters of water - and Greg, moved confidently to rap on the door.

There was silence from inside.

'Hello? Lee? Are you in there?' she called, banging again, harder, against the glass.

A murmur of voices could be heard. Then a man, Scottish by the accent. 'Who wants to know?'

'Abby Grant.'

A heartbeat, and the door swung open. Abby stared at the man looming in the doorway. 'You!' she exclaimed. 'You - you're from the lab -'

He nodded, eyes hard. 'You escaped.'

'I'm sorry I couldn't get you out,' she murmured, cradling the basket awkwardly in her arms. 'How did you -?'

'When the scientists started to die, the experiments stopped,' he explained quietly, but couldn't seem to keep his gaze from drifting to the supplies she was holding. He looked thin, desperate. 'Why are you here?'

'Can we talk?'

He looked wary for a moment, but then Peter peeked his head around from behind Abby's back and the man's face softened slightly.

'You'd better come inside,' he said. 'Not safe to advertise our whereabouts.'

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><p>Lee recognised Greg immediately, and her face wreathed with a smile. 'How's Naj?' she asked as soon as they were seated.<p>

'Oh, good,' he smiled, even if it was somewhat forced. There were four burly men and a tough-looking woman inside the pub, in addition to the teenage girl. 'Obsessed with livestock.'

Lee and Peter giggled as the adults eyed one another warily. Abby, seeking to cut some of the tension, asked her former acquaintance - Paddy - for some glasses to share out the water. That, at least, seemed to placate them somewhat.

'So what was it you wanted?' Paddy asked at length, cradling the glass between his hands.

'The man from our group, the man who robbed you -' Greg began carefully. 'He's gone missing.'

Paddy snorted. 'Good riddance. You're well shot of him.'

'We need to find him,' Abby protested. 'He was injured, and he's - he's part of our family. We were hoping he might try some of the familiar places first and, well, he got supplies here last time...'

'So you want us to point him in the right direction,' Paddy growled, raising a brow. 'And you think a bit of food is going to be sufficient payment?'

'Well, that's the other thing. We also have this -' Abby produced a small medical kit and unzipped it to show the group its contents. 'Vaccine. From the lab. The virus is mutating and this is the only chance we've got of beating it once and for all. It's been tested; it works.'

'How do you know we won't just take it and kill that sonofabitch if he comes around this way?' one of the younger men asked, violence in his voice. Paddy didn't protest; he seemed to agree.

Abby gave him a shaky smile. 'We don't. But we want you to have it anyway. A lot of people died for this...no one else should.' She laid it on the table and stood, nodding to Greg and Peter as she did. 'If you see Tom...please tell him to come home.'

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><p>Picking the thread loose from the sofa cushion, Anya carefully wound it back around the spool it came from. Teaching Sophie to suture was an essential but unpleasant task and, unlike her own medical school days, couldn't be achieved using a banana - since there <em>were <em>none. Recycling the thread wouldn't be necessary right now, maybe not even within her own generation, but Anya did it nonetheless. Such actions had become habit since they'd started learning how to survive.

'You're getting better,' she smiled encouragingly. 'Come on, let's take a break. I'll make us some lunch.'

With some experimentation, Abby had figured out how to make bread in the Aga, and the group were still in the first blush of love with sandwiches. The fillings weren't especially inspired, but that couldn't be helped. Anya had learnt to appreciate every form of sustenance.

'Al! Naj!' she called, sticking her head out of the back door. 'Time for lunch!'

Sophie set out their meals, accompanied by cans of slightly warm Coke as the boys trouped in from whatever it was they were doing in the yard. 'We need a rooster,' Al told them sardonically as he slouched into a chair and cracked open his drink.

'The hens are getting broody,' Naj announced, causing Anya and Sophie to fall about laughing.

'Lonely,' Al corrected, rolling his eyes with a grin. 'They're getting lonely.'

'_And _broody, I should imagine,' Anya laughed. She took a careful bite of her sandwich. 'Anyway, it'll be nice to have lots of little chicks around the place.' That, naturally, sent Naj into transports of delight, and the others resigned themselves to, not only finding a rooster, but never again enjoying the delights of a chicken dinner. Anya wasn't altogether bothered - she was a vegetarian. She _did _wonder what Tom would make of it...if he ever came back.

As if sensing the sharp decline in her mood, Al nudged her, gave her smile. 'Hey, why don't we have a kickabout after we've eaten? I need to do some exercise - I'm getting a right belly on me.' He patted his enviably flat stomach and winked.

Anya snorted. 'God forbid,' she told him, smirking.

* * *

><p>It had been a good day. Abby learnt to measure them by what <em>didn't <em>happen, rather than what did - and since they hadn't found themselves party to violence, theft or intimidation, Abby considered it a good day. Their supplies were exhausted, and they'd foraged, not for food, but for the other things that made life a little bit more bearable. It was refreshing to be able to go into a shop and not worry about the threat of mugging. No one cared what they took from a bookshop, or a department store.

Now that Peter was back with her, Abby was beginning to realise that something would need to be done about his and Naj's education. They couldn't be allowed to grow up wild and feral. Hate her though she undoubtedly did, she had to admit that Samantha had certain things right, and the importance of education was one of them. But it would be on her own terms. Peter and Naj would learn, first and foremost, to survive in a world that had been catapulted back to the dark ages. They needed to know how to grow crops, raise livestock, defend themselves and their companions against any and all threats to their existence; they needed to learn exactly what had happened to change the natural order of things and how to prevent it from ever happening again, by fostering community and eradicating the human desire to play God. So Abby foraged for books, but even as she did, she understood that the most valuable lessons they would learn were the ones that growing up itself would teach them.

'It's getting dark, Abby,' Greg called quietly and she filled the remaining space in her holdall. 'We need to make a move.'

Hurrying out, two bags stacked on top of a further suitcase, she smiled guiltily. 'It's not all books,' she protested at Greg's incredulous look. 'I got some things for the others; clothes, shoes, a few luxuries.'

Greg pursed his lips sternly. 'We should live lightly, just in case we need to go. That house isn't safe.'

'After what we've all been through, don't you think we deserve some small pleasures?' Abby asked softly. 'We can't keep living like nomads.'

Though he clearly thought she was bonkers for putting so much stock in the idea that a nice jumper or a board game would make their lives in any way better, Greg didn't put up any more of a fight. He was funny that way; he often disagreed with Abby, but he never failed to back down in the end.

Peter held up an old-fashioned Polaroid camera. 'I found this,' he told his mum excitedly. 'I think Naj will like it - he can take pictures of the chickens.'

Abby laughed and ruffled her son's hair. 'That's kind of you,' she smiled indulgently. 'I'm sure he'll love it.'

They piled into the Landrover, the bed now filled with all manner of things, from books to clothes to tiny frivolities from a previous life. As they passed the building where Tom's sign hung, Abby felt the lightness of her mood begin to deflate. 'I hope he finds us,' she said quietly, looking up at the white sheet as it flapped in a gentle evening breeze. 'I don't think Anya will ever forgive herself if he's gone for good.'

* * *

><p><strong>Final Note: <strong>Why yes, uncharacteristically I'm storming ahead - likely because it's NaNoWriMo season and I'm in serious danger of writing 50,000 words of Survivors fanfic rather than my planned novel.


	3. Playing God

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Survivors, but I really wish I did.

**Author's Note: **Tom, at last!

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><p><strong>May There Never Be An End<strong>

_A Survivors Fanfic_

_Written by Silksteel_

* * *

><p>Tom Price had woken up in some bloody interesting places in his time, but none had been quite so inconvenient as the laboratory in which he now found himself. The bright white lights explained to him where he was through the barest flicker of his eyelids. The dull throb of his right shoulder told him that someone had removed the bullet that was in it. The steady beeping of medical equipment assured him that he was alive. Within ten seconds, Tom had established the who, the what, the where and the why. The how was his own doing, of course. Hopping on Landry's plane was an exercise of sorts; he was curious to find out where they'd taken the other survivors - especially since the plane they flew over in wasn't exactly the sort of size one might expect from an international cargo craft.<p>

They were somewhere over the Pennines when he'd lost consciousness, and that was definitely _not_ part of the plan.

Thinking about the final showdown with Landry made him wonder how the others were. The considerations for Abby, Greg, Al, Naj and Peter were perfunctory; he cared just enough to spare them a moment in his thoughts. It was Anya that occupied the lions share.

He didn't want to remember their conversation before they parted; it was too painful. She seemed to think that they had a chance to salvage themselves from future agony, but Tom was already feeling it. His stoicism was in shreds; her rejection of him had cut him to the quick - even though he knew, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that she would be looking for him even now. Tom might have been the proverbial bull in a china shop when it came to the finer points of human relationships, but he knew people. It was his curse to bear; a burden when he could only see darkness and shadows in this new world.

For the moment, it didn't matter. With Whitaker, Dexter and Gavin all dead, Tom only had to concern himself about the garden variety of criminal coming after Anya - and so long as she was with the family, he could put it to the back of his mind before the potential in it drove him mad. Instead, it was time to consider what he was doing here, and how to get out of it.

First things first, he thought. An introduction.

* * *

><p>'Ah, Mr. Price. You're awake,' came the smooth voice of Landry over the intercom. 'That was quicker than we might have predicted - your immune response under such pressure is truly...remarkable.'<p>

Tom raised an eyebrow laconically. He wasn't quite sure what his immune system had to do with his recovering from being shot by a handgun, but in all his long years, Tom had discovered that it was much better to say nothing than let people in on your ignorance. Besides, he didn't feel particularly remarkable; he felt like his head had been stuffed with cotton wool, and his throat was dry as a bush fire.

'You planning on feeding me any time soon?' he rasped, prompting the subject as he sat up slowly, favouring his right shoulder by keeping the weight off it. He might need to use it in short order, and he wanted to be in the best possible condition.

Landry smiled genially. He seemed genuinely delighted with Tom's very existence. 'Of course, of course,' he assured Tom, motioning to a white-coated disciple. 'I'm sorry, it's just...your recovery...the vaccine works better than we could ever have hoped.'

His commentary told Tom two very important things: that first, he suffered the indignity of being infected with the virus as a guinea pig without even a nod of consent, whilst he had a serious wound; and second, that Landry hadn't yet taken the vaccine himself. No doubt he'd be subject to further testing before that happened, which was well enough on the offchance he fancied giving Landry a taste of his own medicine - as it were.

Tom nodded. 'I know,' he pointed out boredly. 'I was there when they tested it last time.' A hand rose to his face, felt the stickiness of cooling sweat on his brow and made him grateful to have slept through Landry's experiment. 'So what now? Are you taking this show on the road, or what?'

In retrospect, the laughter wasn't a good sign. 'Tom, Tom,' Landry smiled pityingly. 'Of course not. At least, not yet. Deals have to be established and brokered. These things take time.'

The small, vicious animal that lived in his chest where his heart should be, snarled menacingly. Of course, he should have known. Tom came from a world whether everything was bought - with money or loyalty or blood. You never got something for nothing. Hanging around with people like Anya had made him soft, even naive, to think that there was still real human decency in a man like Landry. It was absurd to imagine that he'd let the vaccine be mass produced and distributed to survivors for nothing more than their grateful thanks. It was only going to those who could pay.

Tom gave him an odd, sideways look. 'What is there to deal?' he asked curiously, barely seeming to notice as a junior medic stepped into his isolation room, swathed head to toe in biohazard precautions and placed a tray down on the bed next to him. Tom was a little surprised they hadn't cuffed him - but then, it wasn't like he'd been sentient all that long.

'Why, what everyone in the new world needs: a sustainable source of food. A tax, if you will, levied by the government.'

Such a thing was an acute echo of Samantha Willis' propositions to the point that Tom wondered precisely how much she knew about Landry and his experimentation. How did Whitaker come into the possession of Peter? How did Samantha find the infrastructure for water and power, and the people who knew how to get them working again? Tom didn't actually say anything at all because he didn't trust himself to do so. Instead, he tore into his sandwich by way of answer; a starving man savaging the scraps of his master. That was, after all, what people like Landry and Samantha wanted to be, and they wanted to have him tamed. Well, he could play that role for a little while.

* * *

><p>Landry hadn't been any less than completely explicit about the length of his sentence. Forever wasn't a hard concept to assimilate, even for a man with Tom's limited scope of educational accolade. Of course, that made Landry the moron, given that he obviously thought he could make a cage and keep Tom in it. Now he knew his enemy, there would be no stopping him until all the furthest reaches of this little conspiracy were pulled from the ground like the roots of a weed. Cut them harshly enough, and they'd never grow back.<p>

'I have to admit, Tom, I'm surprised at your cooperation,' Landry told him, after he'd passively accepted a series of blood tests and nourishing vitamin shots. 'I was led to believe you were a somewhat..._difficult _man to deal with.'

Tom raised one side of his mouth in an automatic half-smile. It was ambiguous because it could mean many things, but none of them conveyed amusement. 'Samantha doesn't like me. I imagine she's said all sorts of unflattering and hurtful things.' It was enjoyable to make fun of Landry, to play with his perceptions for a while. Eventually, of course, he'd be forced to play his hand, but not yet. 'Besides, I have nothing better to be doing.'

Whether or not Landry believed that was up to him. If he didn't, of course, it would only be to Tom's entertainment: that was the only true part of the whole sham. Anya was better off without him clouding up her perfect middleclass sense of right and wrong; the rest had their connections to sustain them. Greg would protect them all now; after his stunt with the handgun at the airfield, Tom didn't have any doubts that they'd realised it was the one thing of value he could have given them.

So Tom was content to bide his time. He had plenty of it, and a slow burning temper like embers in a coal fireplace. They fed him well, and he had plenty of peace to think.

* * *

><p>'Good evening, Mr. Landry.'<p>

'Ah, Ms. Willis, a pleasure as always.'

'How is your new...guest?'

A chuckle from Landry. Samantha Willis was a shark, a precise and brutal predator, but she was far more at home with the idea of a swift death than a prolongued torture. Perhaps it was her only redeeming feature. 'The test subject is doing extremely well,' he reported with a self-satisfied smile. 'With each repeat infection, his immune response becomes faster, and stronger.'

'Well, that _is _heartening,' she replied, obviously thinking only of what it would mean for herself and her people. 'And the vaccine?'

'That is still in the testing stages,' Landry admitted, though his tone was firm, friendly. 'But we're cautiously optimistic that production will start within the fortnight.'

* * *

><p>As it turned out, forever was a much shorter time than advertised. Over a few weeks, he proved his cooperation to Landry's staff so that they started treating him more like a human being than a lab rat. Tom fully admitted his less than stellar traits, but when he got going, he could charm birds from the trees - in his own artless way. After so long, the medics were an exhausted and heartsick bunch. They'd seen death beyond what anyone should have to. They were quite desperate for simple human interaction.<p>

Landry, on the other hand, took a deeply personal interest in Tom's progress. He visited every day, enquiring after his health, his diet, his mental state. It seemed more like a life mission than an evil corporate plot - but then, Tom had to admit, Landry probably wanted the freedom to walk in the sunshine like those who were naturally immune. After a while, the vaccine had been distributed among the chosen ones, the _Hope Never Dies _postcard lottery winners and they were preparing to go out into the world for the first time.

Which was when Landry got sloppy. Buoyed by his success with the vaccine; the fact that Tom had been infected and reinfected over a period of weeks, each time showing a swifter recovery and stronger immune system as a result; Landry removed the final barrier to his grand plan - introducing the infection into his population. The test subject was a young researcher, and he proved to have a quite satisfactory immune response, much like Tom. He was vaccinated, infected, fell ill, and recovered once more. Tom watched and waited for something to go wrong, but it never did...not until the other test subject was released back into the wild.

Within a day, all of the people he'd so far met from the lab were sick and dying, with the exception of the researcher. Oh, they'd all been inoculated of course, but Tom had his suspicions about that. In the meantime, he watched and he waited, and slowly, just like everywhere else, they began to die.

'How is this happening?' Landry wailed as he pounded on Tom's plexiglass window. 'How could you deceive me like this?'

Tom looked placidly back at him. 'The vaccine was only ever tested on immune survivors,' he told Landry quietly. 'Since we were already _safe. _There were none of you ordinary, vulnerable sacks of meat wandering around on which we could establish whether or not the vaccine truly worked.' Even Tom knew what Landry had done was appallingly careless. 'That, and I assume it's impossible to tell who is immune and who isn't until they're exposed.'

In his eagerness to develop the vaccine and get it on the market, Landry had committed the ultimate sin: he'd become impatient. Instead of performing repeat experiments with simultaneous test subjects, it was like he'd designed his hypothesis around one case and used it to prove what he hoped was true. As Landry's ashen face pressed desperately against the glass, Tom smiled coolly, lying back and folding his arms beneath his head.

* * *

><p>When Tom woke up once more, the lab was empty. The lights were on in his cage, but outside of it all he could see was darkness. He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the gurney, sliding down to his feet in predatory silence. Although he knew for sure that at least one other person would still be alive, Tom wasn't sure how he might be received by him, and so he was already working on the thorny problem of getting out. The doors were, of course, far too tough, made for precisely this kind of scenario. The plexiglass observation window held possibility - if he could find a way of hitting it with enough force. He paced back and forth in front of it a few times, considering every angle, until a face loomed at him out of the darkness.<p>

Standing stock still, Tom met the researcher's haunted eyes, his own deep and fathomless pools of unlimited possibility. He wondered how he'd feel to know that he was sort of responsible for the deaths of all his friends and colleagues. A quick consultation confirmed his apathy. Then Anya's face swam before him a moment, but he pushed it away; of all the people that were left in the world, he was the _least _likely to be the death of her, no matter how little she appreciated his ethos.

'Is it just us now, mate?' he enquired softly, trying not to spook the boy on the other side before he even had a chance to plead his case.

The researcher nodded. 'Just us.' He let out a slightly hysterical giggle and Tom eyed him doubtfully. 'Got to purge the lab, contain the infection,' he muttered. 'Can't let it get out again...no, no, that would be disastrous...'

'...Purge?' Tom repeated warily. That didn't sound good - the kid was losing it. Just his luck, to be stuck with the only person who gave a damn. 'Hey, _hey, _any chance you're going to be letting me out now?'

A pause. The boy looked at him, then at the floor; shook his head. 'Can't do that. Can't let it get out again...too many people...purge the lab...'

Tom watched as he weaved unsteadily out of his line of sight, talking to himself. Then he rested his forearms against the wall, and gently knocked his head into it. 'Purge the lab,' he growled. 'Well that's just bloody brilliant.'

* * *

><p><strong>Final Note: <strong>Perchance our starcrossed lovers will meet next chapter...and then again, maybe not.


	4. Before The Worst

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Survivors, though I really wish I did.

**Author's Note: **Er...whoops. I have no idea where this chapter came from. Thugs referenced are from Season 1, Episode 4 - and they've brought a few friends along for the ride. Where's Tom when you need him, eh?

* * *

><p><strong>May There Never Be An End<strong>

_A Survivors Fanfic_

_Written by Silksteel_

* * *

><p>Sophie Grace Locklear thought she understood love, until she met Abby's group. They were a disparate, desperate bunch of misfits, thrown together entirely by circumstance yet <em>bound<em>to one another in a way that was somehow stronger than blood. She knew that they were all making massive personal compromises in taking her on to train, that by making a deal with Samantha it was putting a strain on the whole group. Whoever this Tom was, she hoped he realised what he had here, how much they were willing to do to find him. In a way, she felt invested in the search despite herself; even with what Samantha had told them about his past crimes.

Of them all, Abby was the one most willing to explain why certain things were the way they were. Tom, she'd been told, was the ultimate survivor, a man whose moral ambiguities made him uniquely qualified to prosper in the new world. He had killed, she explained, but it was always in response to threat - his motives were Darwinian. Anyone who threatened the lives or freedoms of people he'd unwittingly taken under his protection was systematically eliminated. They might not approve of his methods, but they couldn't deny that he had the right of it and the measure of others.

Something about it all troubled her. Sophie had been with the new government, as it were, for a relatively short period of time. They'd picked up her on a sweep, found her living in a tiny abandoned farmhouse to the north, made a deal to transport the few animals she'd been keeping - a cow for milk, a collie, a couple of sheep and a stray ram - and transplant the seedlings she'd fostered in exchange for community and safety and the company of others. Loneliness and the suspicion that not cooperating with the enigmatic Samantha would leave her with nothing made Sophie determined to see it through. She could start again, sure, but she'd still be alone.

So she made friends. One or two. Despite all the luxuries of the old world they enjoyed - hot water and electricity - the people under Samantha's regime seemed scared, somehow. Sophie found it easy to believe the things Abby told her because they made sense. She wasn't an anarchist, didn't necessarily believe that they were each a law unto themselves, but Samantha had shown herself determined to serve the greater good regardless of who got in her way. Seeing the way these people lived...what care they had for one another...it made her think that the old world order wasn't one they really had to return to.

'You okay?'

Sophie looked up and smiled at Al standing in the doorway. His voice was a bit cold, but the fact that he was talking to her, voluntarily, was more progress than they'd made in weeks.

'Just thinking,' she replied, uncurling herself from the window seat and picking up the empty mug that had held her tea, rolling it between her hands. 'I haven't had this much time to myself in ages.'

Al scuffed awkwardly at the carpet with the toe of his shoe. A playboy with a broken heart, he was the stalwart that held out against her for unfathomable reasons - she wasn't trying to take the place of anyone, least of all his lost love. Even Greg, gruff though he was, managed to be civil, even friendly. Oh, Sophie knew they kept certain things from her, but that was less to do with her than it was to do with Samantha. It seemed that anyone aligned with the politician was cause enough for suspicion.

'They work you pretty hard up at Samantha's place, don't they?'

Sophie blinked. He was making conversation. It was, indeed, a triumphant day. 'For the greater good,' she snorted, tossing her hair. 'Or in other words, to keep Samantha and her _government_ in a manner in which they'd like to become accustomed.' There, she'd said it.

He was looking at her now, really looking. Sophie crossed her arms over her chest feeling suddenly self-conscious. Whining to Al was like...like complaining of a papercut to a cancer sufferer. Oddly, he seemed excited by it. 'Why don't you leave?' he asked, a slight breathlessness in him.

A shrug. 'I have nowhere else to go. I don't know anyone. And they have my dog.'

'Your...?'

Smiling, Sophie met his incredulous gaze. 'I found Patch at the farm I was staying on and we...sort of adopted each other. He'd lost his owners, and I -' she paused, shook her head. 'Well, it's the same story everywhere you go. We looked after each other. Samantha's keeping him as a sort of collateral, I think. To make sure I come back once I've been trained.' Sophie huffed out a laugh as she moved towards the doorway. 'You know, I think she's...almost afraid of this group. Even without Tom. She seems to believe she'll lose people to you.'

Al was studying her, his dark eyes roaming intensely over her face. 'And you?'

'I...' Sophie stepped right up close to him, so close she could almost feel the heat radiating from his body, so close she could see the first shadows of stubble along his jawline. 'I'm starting to see her point,' she admitted, smirking as she brushed past him and headed for the kitchen.

* * *

><p>In keeping with her chosen religion, Samantha had instigated Sunday as a day of rest, reflection and prayer. It was also the day Sophie returned to the compound, to see Patch and report her progress to Samantha. Usually, it was Abby and Greg to take her, even though she knew Greg would just as easily kill the woman with his bare hands for what she had done to them - to him, selling him into slavery at a coal mine. That Sunday, however, to the surprise of damn near everyone, Al offered to take his place.<p>

Sophie climbed in the back with her small overnight bag - a welcome gift from Abby's trip into the city, filled with crisp new pyjamas and things she'd never thought to desire again like face cream and expensive toothpaste - and tried not to grin like an idiot. It meant a lot that he'd put himself out for her, even in such a basic way. She knew how they all felt about making the journey to the compound - the exchange was tense, every single time.

As they pulled away from the house, she looked up at the beautiful manor they lived in, at Greg teaching the two boys how to perform maintenance on the Landrover - with the promise of driving lessons as an incentive - and Anya waving serenely from the doorstep. Sophie lifted her hand in farewell, smiling at the picture they all made. Despite herself, she was growing very fond of the family, envying their way of life and the closeness they shared.

* * *

><p>Leaving the front door open, despite the chill of the approaching winter, Anya went back into the house and began to tidy up. Sophie's tutoring was progressing quickly, aided by the medical mannequin that Abby and Greg had taken from a local teaching hospital, and the dearth of textbooks that were now colonising the parlour where they carried out her lessons. The girl was a revelation, really, so keen in her thirst for knowledge, with an agile mind and inquisitive nature that made teaching her less than the chore Anya had originally imagined it might be. She actually somewhat enjoyed the time they spent together; Sophie reminded her a little of Jenny - they shared the same irreverent humour. Even Al was melting to her charms.<p>

The only problem with it that Anya could see, was the looming deadline for Sophie's departure. They'd agreed to winter here whilst Anya prepared her pupil for the task of taking care of Samantha's people, but when spring arrived, they were to make for the coast and begin the life they'd chosen; with Sophie staying here, it was best not to get attached. She knew it was necessary for all of them; they needed a fresh start, and to leave behind all the demons that plagued them. They needed to be away from Samantha's burgeoning dictatorship. They needed time to properly mourn their dead - and if Tom didn't find them by the end of the winter, he would need to be counted among those they'd truly lost.

Anya sank onto the sofa as the thought punched a ragged hole through her chest. They were trying so hard...short of searching every building in the entire country, there was nothing they could do. It crossed her mind that he might have been taken by Landry's men when they were at the airfield...if that was the case, he might be in a lab somewhere...if he wasn't in Britain, how could they find him? The hopelessness of the whole thing threatened to overwhelm her. They were dealing with forces so far beyond their means in a world without the technology they had come to depend on. Tom was a force of nature himself, but it was brutal and raw and primitive. Anya wrapped her arms around herself, fingers clenching tightly into the rough material of her sweater. If he was gone...truly gone...she had no idea what she would do.

* * *

><p>'But why do we have to do this? Can't we just drive?'<p>

Greg shook his head sternly and directed Naj back under the bonnet of the Landrover. 'You have to learn how to maintain a vehicle, how to keep it running and make sure you don't get stranded somewhere. They don't manufacture cars any more, boys, which means that in a few years time, it'll be impossible to just pick up an abandoned one in the street - they'll all have succumbed to the elements. Learn this, and you'll be able to keep a car running for decades.'

The boys still looked sulky, so he grinned and held up his oil stained hands in submission. 'Fine, once around the yard - each - then we get back to it, alright?'

Peter whooped as he slid into the drivers seat, edging Naj for the first go. 'Now, one foot on the clutch, and one on the brake. Slowly release the handbrake - that's right,' Greg coaxed from the passenger side. 'Lift your foot off the brake and rest it on the accelerator - don't press! Gently now, release the clutch a little, not too fast - there, can you hear the engine? That's called the biting point. Start to press the accelerator as you lift your foot off the clutch...'

The Landrover stalled and cut out. Peter looked shellshocked in the sudden silence as Greg laughed, yanking the handbrake on to stop them rolling. 'Don't worry about it. Just start the engine and try again.'

In the end it took two more attempts to get the car running properly, and Peter made a careful circuit of the front drive to the accompaniment of Naj's cheering encouragement. It was the most animated he'd seen Abby's son since the trauma of the airfield, and he knew a lot of that was to do with the boys' friendship. 'Alright, that was great,' he grinned. 'Now we can -'

'Hey, Greg, look -' Peter interrupted, taking one hand from the steering wheel to point at the gate. There was a blond man standing there, hollow eyed and armed with a baseball bat.

Greg recognised him instantly. When Abby had gone to Waterhouse and the others to check out Samantha's compound, he and Anya had come under attack from a pair of thugs - and this was one of them right here. 'I knew I should have killed them when I had the chance,' he growled, motioning for Peter to brake and let him out.

A moment later, Anya's shriek sounded from inside the house, and Greg's heart rate went through the roof. 'They must have come in the back,' he muttered frantically. 'Peter - you know the way to Samantha's?'

Fortunately, Peter had been with his mother several times and had a good head for directions. He nodded dumbly, eyes wide with fear. 'Good. Go and find the others, tell them what's happened. Now, Peter, go!'

Greg didn't even look as Peter sped away - Naj had vanished into the house to find Anya, and Greg sprinted after him, grabbing the crowbar he kept by the front door that Naj hadn't thought to take. If anything happened to them - Anya, Naj - Abby would never forgive him. Al would never forgive him. Hell, he would never forgive himself.

* * *

><p>'Greg! Look out!'<p>

Anya's scream came too late as Greg rushed in and was immediately felled by a vicious blow to the back of his head. The man who'd hit him continued to kick his motionless body, not noticing as Naj darted forward and seized Greg's dropped crowbar, driving the fearsome hooked end into the assailant's chest with a snarl of pure fury.

He howled in rage and pain, lashing out with his fist and connecting hard with Naj's cheek.

'No!' Anya shrieked, elbowing the man who held her captive in the ribs as hard as she could, and throwing herself in front of Naj's prone body. 'He's just a child,' she sobbed. 'He's just a child!'

'That's _enough_!' came a roar from the kitchen, and the leader of the band that attacked them stomped through, a stolen bottle of water in his hand. 'Let's get the food and get out.'

'What about these?' the man who held Anya asked, gesturing at her, Naj and Greg - who hadn't stirred since he was knocked out.

The leader eyed them speculatively. 'Bring the bitch. Kill the others.'

_'No!'_ Anya grabbed wildly for the utility knife that Greg kept strapped to his belt and threw herself at the advancing man, the desperation and force of her actions taking him by surprise, allowing her to sink the blade deep into his thigh. 'Naj, run!' she yelled as he threw her off and gasped, wheezing, gripping the handle of the knife and sinking to the floor with a cry of agony. Naj, for once, did as he was told, and ran stumbling from the room.

Anya curled up over Greg's body as the two remaining men advanced and held up a hand. 'Stop,' she said desperately. 'That blade is embedded in your femoral artery. If you pull it out, you'll have about three minutes before you bleed to death.'

'Just kill her, Marlon,' the injured man groaned, trembling and sobbing as his hands became slick with his own blood.

'I'm a doctor, I can help you -' Anya continued, somehow managing to keep herself from passing out. She couldn't remember ever being so frightened in her life. 'But only if you leave my friends alone.'

* * *

><p><strong>Final Note: <strong>This is less Tomya than I originally planned - but don't worry, the big reunion is on its way!


	5. Something To Die For

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Survivors, but I really wish I did.

**Author's Note: **A bit all over the place, but the companion chapter should be up within the day.

* * *

><p><strong>May There Never Be An End<strong>

_A Survivors Fanfic_

_Written by Silksteel_

* * *

><p>In retrospect, it was only a matter of time before something happened. Abby knew that much. From the moment she and Greg had run across the desperate man in the petrol station on the very first post-infection day, she had come to understand that the people who were left didn't all have the luxury of being decent. At their heart, everyone just wanted to survive - as Tom had put it, they were seeing one another for what they truly were. Animals. When they were scared and hungry and fighting desperately for survival, millions of years of evolution were wiped out, reverting them to primitive hunters. It was in everything they did, from the foraging to the group loyalty. Caring for one another was a given when they needed each other to survive, preserving the structure of their community was key in being successful. From that angle, very little of what they'd done could be lauded as humane. They'd been fortunate in finding supplies and weapons and building a large enough group to protect themselves - to a point - and so they could trade for what they needed, or occasionally admit defeat as they had in the case of Dexter's supermarket monopoly. Abby realised that no everyone had that choice - and knew that if the shoe was on the other foot, if she was forced to steal from other survivors to feed herself or her son, then yes. She would do it. In a heartbeat.<p>

It was what Tom had been trying to tell them all along. It wasn't even that he didn't fit _her _idea of good, it was that he didn't fit a now-defunct society's idea of good. Everything they had learnt, everything they knew about how to live and the truth of the moral compass was irrelevant. Denying the breakdown of civilisation in the face of what had happened was dangerously naive - it had almost gotten them all killed. Likewise, believing that they were safe just because they were many, because they'd settled in a prosperous area, because they were in an - albeit unsteady - alliance with what they considered to be the main antagonists of their new world, meant that they'd grown almost careless about it.

Everything was brought home to her at the gates of Samantha's compound. Sophie had just stepped from the car to be greeted by Samantha and fuss over Patch; Abby and Al stood a little ways behind, wary of coming any further. Everyone was uneasy, and it never changed - it never would, because of what had happened between their groups. As Sophie bade them farewell, the roar of an engine and the screech-jerk sound of grinding gears reached them. Abby whirled around, gasping as she recognised the Landrover - and its underage driver.

'Brake!' she screeched. 'Peter, hit the brake!'

Fortunately, Greg had taught him that much. The car came to an inelegant and abrupt halt as he stalled it once more, but at least had the presence of mind to pull on the handbrake before he slid down from the driving seat and into his mother's arms.

'The house -' he gasped, tears running down his face. 'They're attacking the house. Greg -'

Abby held him in a tight embrace, turning to Al. 'We have to get back there, _now,'_

As she bundled Peter into the passenger side of the Landrover, Sophie rushed back to the sedan she'd only just vacated. 'I'm coming with you,' she called to Abby, slinging her bag into the back and climbing in next to Al. 'They might need my help.' She meant medically, of course, but she couldn't say that. It panicked her to even consider that something might have happened to Anya or Naj, or even Greg.

'Take one of my men,' Samantha insisted. 'In case they're armed.'

At her offer, Abby hesitated. She didn't want to bring any of the compound's thugs into their house - not after the debacle with Dexter - but if the others were in danger, there was little she could do with one pistol. 'Fine,' she called out, knowing that Samantha's willingness had nothing to do with helping _her_ and everything to do with protecting her investment. Abby pointed at the man she'd saved from execution on her very first visit, now a shotgun-toting gate guard. 'You, get in the truck.'

* * *

><p>'It's alright, Peter,' Abby crooned reassuringly as she sped down the deserted country lanes back to their house, Al keeping close behind. 'I'm sure the others are fine; this has happened to us before. They can look after themselves.'<p>

Peter continued to sob, huddling into his jacket as Abby wrenched the Landrover around the corner and within view of their drive to find the body of a man lying there in front of the house, motionless, his arm twisted at a sickening angle from his body, one leg a mass of bloody and churned flesh. 'What the hell -?' she whispered, just relieved to see it wasn't anyone they knew.

Her son let out a fresh howl. 'I didn't mean to hit him,' he whimpered. 'But he was coming at me with a bat and I didn't know what to do, and -'

Abby threw the car into park and gripped him in a tight hug. 'It's alright, Peter,' she told him firmly. 'You did the right thing. But I need you to be strong now, just until we find out how the others are, okay?'

At his nod, she let him go and almost fell out of the Landrover in her haste, the rest of their group hot on her heels as she ran for the house. 'Greg!' she yelled as she made it to the hallway. 'Naj! Anya!'

The pistol was gripped tight in one hand, but it was utterly useless against what she found in the living room. Greg was struggling to get up with Naj's help, blood running down the side of his face. 'Greg,' she sobbed, relief flooding her. 'Oh, Greg...'

'They took Anya,' he groaned, almost falling into her as he reeled from his obvious head wound. 'We have to find her...'

Al stormed past them both to grab hold of Naj, his face dark with fury at the state of his young charge's injuries. 'They did this to you?' he growled, almost fearsome in his wrath. Naj nodded and buried his bruised face in Al's chest as he hugged him fiercely, tears running down his cheeks.

'Anya stabbed that guy,' he told Al in a muffled voice, pointing blindly in the direction of the unnoticed assailant who was watching the proceedings with barely disguised panic. 'They were going to kill us, but she stopped them.'

Abby looked at the man Anya had wounded. He was ashen and dripping with sweat, the blade of a knife buried deep in his thigh, his hands clutching around the wound and trying to stem the flow of blood. 'He's one of the ones that attacked us when you were at Waterhouse,' Greg told Abby as she and Samantha's guard helped him to a chair. 'They came for the food.' For some reason, Greg wouldn't meet her eyes, and Abby knew precisely why - he didn't want to admit that Anya's disappearance was a motivating factor for the gang. Not only did Naj and Peter need less horror in their young lives, but after what happened to Sarah, the sacrifice she made for the vital equipment that saved his and Anya's lives at the city hospital, Al would go ballistic. Survivors were scarce; young female ones statistically about the same in those stakes. They had to find Anya, and quickly.

* * *

><p>He had to hand it to them, the science types knew exactly what they were doing when they built isolation chambers - but nevertheless, Tom had managed to force his way out through a combination of brute strength and ingenious use of local materials: namely, the bed. Dressed only in a pair of scrub pants, he jogged through the darkened corridors, silently searching for some form of exit. In truth, he didn't know what the researcher meant by purging the lab - whether it was simple arson, or a more complex doomsday system that Landry had in place for such eventualities. Either way, he didn't fancy sticking around to find out.<p>

Everywhere he went, there were bodies - chairs, on gurneys, stuffed wholesale into sterile rooms just like his, or reclining in offices as if unaware that they'd died in the midst of their work. Death had long ceased to bother Tom, partly because he perpetuated it, and partly because it had become almost commonplace since the virus. It wasn't unusual to see corpses wherever one went.

Taking a possible shortcut through a room filled with banks of computers, Tom heard a voice speaking in a nearby office, and altered his path to follow it. Only when he was within feet of the door did he realise that it was familiar.

_'My name is Abby Grant -'_

That recording of Samantha's. Amazingly, they were still playing it. Peeking his head around the doorway, he noticed the plaque on the desk that declared it to belong to Landry, and decided to take a moment to check whether the old fool had anything that might help. Indeed, the desk drawers yielded a handgun, a set of car keys - to what, he wasn't sure - and an important-looking folder that he liberated from a locked desk drawer with a bit of violent encouragement.

Throughout his search, the tape had continued to play the voice of the survivors that had come after Abby, until it came to one he knew, one that he heard so often in his waking dreams that it was almost a part of himself. Tom stared at the screen, at her pale heart-shaped face and the deep purple shadows beneath her eyes, the intensity in his own gaze threatening to swallow her up. He felt like a dying man in the desert looking at an oasis mirage. Through the haze of longing, he focused enough to hear her words: _'Tom...if you see this...please come home. We need you. We - we miss you. I miss you.'_

Whatever his vague plans had been once he got out of this facility and back on the road, Tom immediately forgot about them. He'd been waiting to hear her say those words to him for months, had prompted her once, when they were in the city and he brought her cigarettes. He wanted Anya to understand how he felt when she was out of his sight: panicky, and like he couldn't breathe properly, like when they'd first met and she squeezed his chest feeling for broken ribs. The knowledge that she'd gone to Samantha, had obviously made some sort of deal to gain access to her broadcasting equipment, terrified Tom. She'd said _home, _that meant the family was living just a few minutes away from the compound, from Willis' goons.

Gathering up the stuff he'd taken, Tom headed for the door, his mind made up: he was going home. He was going to make Anya admit how she felt about him, and then the whole lot of them were going to leave for the coast.

Before he made it out of the office, however, an equally familiar but much less welcome voice sounded over the screen. '_Landry?' _It was Samantha - he'd know that tone anywhere. Tom froze - he wasn't in the line of sight of the screen, and he didn't want Samantha to know he was there. Upsetting the balance of things might have serious repercussions for whatever deal Anya had going. The last thing he wanted to do was put her in danger. _'Landry, I know you're there. I need a definite schedule for the delivery of the vaccine. Once Locklear has finished her training with the doctor, I can send you Abby and Peter Grant. They'll be more reliable test subjects than Price.'_

Barely breathing in his quest to stay quiet, Tom crept out of the room and broke into a run. Samantha knew he was here, and she'd let Anya make a deal to train a doctor for her community in return for putting out the broadcast - knowing it was perfectly safe to do so since he was incarcerated by her ally, Landry. Yet again, the sheer depths of Samantha's capacity for evil impressed him. Cut her, and she would bleed betrayal and lies. Tom knew it wouldn't be enough that Landry was dead, that the lab was deserted; it wouldn't be enough for them to move to the coast and start again. Eventually, Samantha's need for power and domination would lead her to them once more, and they might not be so fortunate as to escape her next time. She needed to be eliminated if they were to stand any chance of building a new life.

* * *

><p>'What's your name?'<p>

'Jamie.'

Sophie smiled kindly down at the man and arranged the jacket she'd propped under his head as he lay on the dining room table. 'Okay, Jamie, we're going to take this slowly and carefully now. I need you to stay very still and not panic, alright?' She kept her voice at a low, gentle lilt, her confidence rooted entirely in her lack of empathy for the man in front of her. He was thief, probably a murder, definitely a potential rapist - but they'd made a deal with him for the location of his cronies' base and Sophie was obliged to see it through. Anya had taught her that, the importance of medicine without bias. Even if she'd happily kill the patient in front of her, she had a responsibility, as a doctor, to heal_. First, do no harm_. Or, at least, if you were going to do harm - find some way to atone for it later. Sophie suspected that Tom had taught her that one.

'Boys, you're going to hold his legs down, stop him from moving,' she told them gently. 'Grip just below the knee, give me enough space to work.' Sophie glanced at Greg, the only other member of the party forced to stay behind by virtue of his head wound which she'd already cleaned, dressed, and assessed rather optimistically as being fine. Not much she could do if it wasn't, really. Anya would have to take a look when she got back. 'Greg, if you would hold his arms -?'

The older man gave her a dark look, but moved to do so regardless. He was a little rougher about it than Sophie would have preferred, but then Greg had met this man on a previous occasion and had good reason to hate him. 'Now, I have to remove the knife,' she said slowly. 'Jamie, you have to lie still. It's going to hurt like hell, but if you move there's every chance you could make things worse for yourself.' When she got a frantic nod and a hastily cut off whimper as answer, Sophie brought her hand up and wrapped it around the knife blade. The other held cotton to press on the wound to try and stem the bleeding. The knowledge that it didn't matter, the lack of investment in the patient, made her bold and she could treat it as a training exercise. All Sophie wanted from this was to make Anya proud of her.

That in mind, she slowly began to pull the knife from the man's leg, ignoring the way he screamed and twitched beneath her hands. Despite initial fears, there was no arterial spray, and she pressed the wad of cotton to his thigh hard, waiting for the blood to slow. 'There we go,' she murmured. 'You're lucky. It didn't hit the femoral artery. I should be able to sew you up and send you on your way.' Jamie, for his part, was panting hard, letting out little sobs between breaths. At the news he was to live, some of the tension left him, and he laid back onto the table. After a moment, Sophie realised he'd lost consciousness.

'I don't see why this charade is necessary,' Greg growled as she cleaned out his wound with a little sterilising alcohol and prepared a needle and thread.

'Several reasons,' Sophie answered, her voice light and unconcerned as she threaded the needle and began to set stitches, grateful for all the suturing Anya had made her do. Perhaps she wasn't as neat as the other woman, but it was a damn sight better than what Jamie deserved. 'First of all, because we made a deal - his life, for Anya's location. Secondly, because it's the decent thing to do. We can't leave a man to die; we're not savages.' On that point, Sophie didn't quite agree with herself, but taking on the responsibility of being a doctor meant giving up certain personal freedoms. Bias was one of them. 'And lastly, it's good practice. Which, I'm sure Anya would appreciate, were she here.'

'They're going to find her, aren't they?' Naj piped up from where he and Peter had gone mostly unnoticed, standing at the end of the dining table that had become Sophie's makeshift gurney.

Greg's voice was heavy when he spoke. 'I hope so.'

* * *

><p><strong>Final Note: <strong>This story is well and truly running away with me. Just so you know, I have no clue what I'm doing.


	6. What Dreams Do Bring

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Survivors, but I really wish I did.

**Author's Note: **Nanowrimo is upon me and I am...still writing Survivors fic. I lose at life.

* * *

><p><strong>May There Never Be An End<strong>

_A Survivors Fanfic_

_Written by Silksteel_

* * *

><p>The postcards had been a lie. Hope, for those Landry had evacuated and then betrayed with his lack of caution, had finally died. Tom took his first, unsteady steps out into the underground bunker where PSJ had sequestered the foundations of a new civilisation and looked around with cool, emotionless eyes. It was utterly desolate but for the constant whir of generators and the far-off groans of steel shifting infinitesimally within the earth. A plaque on the wall next to the lift showed a map of the structure, and he tore it off, using it as a frame of reference. The place wasn't even a fraction of the size it would need to be in order to house as many people as had been sent postcards, which made him wonder if maybe there were more like it, scattered around the country - whichever one that might be.<p>

In any case, he didn't have time to worry about such things, not with a rogue researcher on the loose. He hurried down a corridor to something marked off as domestic living quarters, finding them curiously empty of people, in any state. Tom didn't bother himself too much about it; a few minutes of foraging furnished him with jeans, a couple of t-shirts, a sweater, jacket, and a pair of sturdy boots in his size, deciding that facing the great outdoors would make much more sense once he was dressed. A rucksack hung forlornly on the back of a door, and Tom seized it, shoving first the folder from Landry's desk, and then some food and water from the kitchenette into it. If he never tasted baked beans again, it would be too soon - but they were the ultimate survivor food, and he was obliged to pay them the appropriate homage.

'I say -'

Tom spun around at the sound of a voice - cultured and somewhat reedy - from the doorway. His pistol was aiming right between the man's eyes before either of them had time to blink; fortunately, Tom had a steady nerve. He wasn't in danger of actually killing him. 'Scientist or civilian?' he bit out, his gun hand not wavering for a moment as he slung the rucksack onto his back and prepared to get moving.

'I'm a doctor,' the man sniffed. 'A surgeon. And you - you're stealing.'

'The dead don't need to eat,' he said firmly, his strong Mancunian accent brooking no argument, but he lowered the pistol all the same. 'Are there any other survivors?'

The surgeon, a salt-and-pepper man in his - Tom would guess - early sixties, attired in an expensively well-cut suit, frowned at him. 'I don't know you,' he said quietly. 'You're not one of us. Where did you come from?'

Mentally rolling his eyes, Tom blew out a breath through his nostrils, lips tightly pressed together in his frustration. 'The lab. Where there's a researcher with his head screwed on backwards talking about purging the place - so I suggest you, and any remaining survivors, pack your shit and get out before that happens.' With that, Tom turned away and headed for the door back into the corridor, glancing at his map to confirm that he was still going in the right direction.

'Wait,' the man called, hurrying after him. 'Where are you going?'

'Outside,' Tom answered shortly, without turning around. 'If you've got any sense at all, you'll do the same.'

'But we have no idea how many people are still here -'

Much as Tom hated to admit it, the old coot actually had a point. Statistically, Anya had explained that roughly ten percent of any given population would prove immune to the virus which, if there were two hundred or so people living beneath the earth in this bunker, meant twenty potential fatalities if they were left to their own devices with a fanatical scientist down below. Since he didn't know them personally, wasn't invested in their survival, Tom couldn't be much less bothered about it - except that it wasn't a _them or him _paradigm.

Looking around, he noted a fire alarm on the wall, and used the butt of his handgun to break it, unleashing a vicious siren to echo through the metal corridors. Turning, he raised his eyebrows meaningfully at the other man, then left to continue walking the path upon which he'd been set.

* * *

><p>Huddling miserably in the back seat of the Renault she'd been forced into, Anya eyed the grass verge blurring beyond the window of the car. They were going much too fast for her to jump out without breaking something, and that would be no use at all. Marlon and his remaining henchman - the one Naj had caught with the crowbar - had bundled her out of the back door and into the woods as soon as they heard engines in the driveway. The one she'd stabbed had been left behind, likely to bleed to death but it couldn't be helped. They had the food now - as much as they could carry - and Anya had lost her main bargaining tool.<p>

'You alright back there, Danny?'

The large man next to her cradled a towel to his chest and scowled darkly. 'Little bastard packs one hell of a punch,' he muttered, pulling the cloth away to examine his wound. His grimy t-shirt was awash with blood, and he looked a bit sick at the sight of his own mangled flesh.

'That'll get infected,' Anya told him dully. 'Unless you close it up and take antibiotics.'

'Well you get the pleasure of all that, darlin',' Marlon snarled. 'Just as soon as we get home.'

Anya folded into herself even further, remembering a similar car journey she'd been taken on not so long ago, by Gavin and his crony, as representatives of Samantha's government. At the time, she'd been numb to it because her value lay purely in her skills - and besides, Tom hadn't allowed them to get as far as the compound. He'd killed Gavin for reasons she now understood, even though she didn't condone them. Tom had told her himself that he would kill anyone who hurt her; far from a thuggish declaration of ownership, Anya had come to view it as a revelation. He didn't _enjoy_killing as she'd suspected before now; he did what he thought he had to - protecting her in his own way was a deeply personal undertaking.

What she wouldn't give to see him now. The savage beauty of his attack on John at the church was a direct response to a direct threat. Marlon and Danny wouldn't stand a chance against that kind of single minded determination.

'Ere, Marlon, are you sure we should be going back to the base?'

'What makes you say that?' the leader asked in his dangerous undertone. Marlon was older than the rest by a few significant years, and he'd not aged well. Life had weathered his face to jerky, and violence had bestowed one too many knocks to his large and disjointed nose. Anya suspected his temper was the main reason for the deference the group had shown him; they certainly didn't follow him for his rational strategic skills.

'Jamie might squeal,' Danny asserted, much to Anya's disgust. Part of her prayed for rescue; the other - better - part hoped to spare her family from having to engage these savages. After what they'd done to Greg and Naj, she dreaded any more blood being spilt on her behalf.

There was silence in the car for an inordinately long time, and she fancied she could hear the gears in Marlon's brain grinding up the idea. 'We've got enough men,' he said at last. 'That black feller was the only fighter in their group and he's going to have a nasty headache.' The unfortunate fact of it was, he was right. Without Tom, the entire burden of the group's safety fell to Greg, whose experience with violence hadn't been honed, as Tom's had, through petty thuggery, prison and possibly the armed forces. Far too late, Anya clued into exactly what Tom had been trying to tell her all along; like it or not, they were all vulnerable, all of them weak against greater numbers, superior weapons and the sheer desperation of human beings pushed to the precipice.

* * *

><p>'Well? What do we do now?'<p>

Tom gazed steadily at Dr. Augustus Wyndham who, apparently, was a much sought after cardiologist - in the old world. He'd be best off disabused of such notions in due course, but Tom didn't actually care enough to do the honours. He had no intention of holding the hands of little lost lambs outside of their super-secret government bunker. What they did now was largely up to them.

He shrugged by way of an answer. 'Whatever you want. Build a new life. That's the only thing you _can _do.'

The good doctor, so blusteringly forthright below ground had emerged into the freezing autumn sunshine and become as meek as the rest. Tom thought back to his own first days on the road, that initial meeting of the group he now considered to be his family. If Abby hadn't stepped up and taken charge, they wouldn't still be together. Most of them wouldn't still be alive. Al, certainly, would have starved to death trying to live on caviar and foie gras. Abby would likely have pissed off the wrong people and gotten herself killed. Naj would be child labour for some orthodox freaks, no doubt. Greg would survive, but like the poor, sad scientist in the lab, would have run himself mad with only the litany of his own mind for company. Tom could view these hypothetical scenarios with a degree of amused detachment, but when it came to Anya's alternate future, he hit the brakes. He didn't want to think of her ending up any other way than by his side, under his protection. He couldn't face the idea of what might have been.

His circuitous thoughts were undertaken for a reason. These people, such as they were, needed a leader. It seemed, though, that everywhere he looked he saw the very old, the very young, or the very traumatised. Tom breathed out hard through his nose. He was going soft; there was no doubt about it.

'Alright. Everyone grab your stuff and let's get going,' he said firmly, the raw power of his voice cutting through their quiet conversations. A total of seven people had escaped the lab in addition to himself.

'Where?'

Wyndham was determined to incite Tom to murder, one way or another.

'I know a place. A farming community. They'll have space for you.' Moreso, if they were each as truly useful to civilisation as their invitations suggested. A heart surgeon was an obvious guess, decrepit though he was. The rest had yet to come forward with their contributions, but Tom didn't want chit-chat. He intended to leave them with Judy and let her take responsibility for introducing them to a new way of life.

'And you?'

Tom's mouth flattened into a hard line as he thought about the deal Anya had made with the devil on his behalf. 'I have something to take care of.'

* * *

><p>They were somewhere northwest of Preston. The whole concept was so delightfully preposterous that Tom stopped at the road sign for a full minute, simply staring. He could make his way back to Manchester and have Anya in his arms within the hour.<p>

'You lost, sonny?'

Tom, uncommonly cheered by his thoughts, didn't even give consideration to telling the old man to shut up. Well, not more than a few seconds consideration, anyway. Without replying, he turned the stolen people carrier onto the motorway slip road and began to drive in earnest. The route wouldn't take him past Judy's place but what was one more day? Abby would be able to marshall the troops and provide them with somewhere to sleep, and they'd had the presence of mind to bring their own food. He was rationalising, and it didn't matter. Now he knew where he was, how close he was, there was nothing on God's green earth that was going to stand in his way, not for another second.

'Where is everyone?' a timid voice from the very back caught his attention, since she seemed to be directing her question to him. A murmur of supportive enquiries followed, and Tom had to resign himself to playing nursemaid. At least the first time around, everyone had been on the same page. It was a bit bloody obvious, what with all the bodies lying around.

'Dead,' he said flatly. Tom didn't see the point in coddling them; the world had become a harsh place; the sooner they realised that, the better chance they had of staying alive.

'The government -?'

'Likewise.' This game could get old pretty fast. 'Look, the virus wiped out pretty much everybody. There are a few groups here and there but, for the most part, everyone's dead. That clear?'

The silence told him that, indeed, his message had been received.

* * *

><p>Abby had driven around the Manchester suburbs for over half an hour. The captive that Anya's kidnappers had left behind told her they were in the old firehouse, but when she got there with Al and Samantha's man, there was no one to be found. Signs of previous occupancy, certainly, but Abby couldn't tell how long the place had been abandoned. If the rest of the man's group thought he might sell them out, it made sense for them to have moved on.<p>

There were a few hours of light left by which to search, but Abby wasn't sure how long they'd truly have. The further away they got with Anya, the more desperate the situation became. It was horrifying to consider what they might want her for. At least if it was her medical expertise they were after, the family would have some small guarantee of her safety - but Greg didn't think that was it at all. What did they expect, really? Human nature was an ugly thing when restraints had ceased to be. The only reason any of them maintained their morality was because they were together, because they had a society between themselves that forced them to behave in an acceptable fashion. Abby herself had given Tom the go-ahead to torture Whitaker for what he knew because she needed to find Peter, and because anything was now possible. To so much as consider condoning - much less encouraging - torture in her old, comfortable life would be unthinkable.

Which was why she was terrified for Anya. Young women alone in this new world had only one choice - the lesser evil. With the death of civilisation had come the death of the civilised, and that was precisely what they were seeing here. Abby hated to think that anarchy was taking them back to the dark ages - but denying it was making them vulnerable to attack. Security rotas, visibly weaponry and a better understanding of how to protect themselves would be essential to prevent this kind of thing happening again. But first, they needed to find Anya.

'The is useless,' Al groaned, shoving his fingers through his too-long hair. 'We should head back and see if that man knows where they might have gone.'

'We don't even know if he'll still be alive,' she said tightly, panic and bile mingling in her throat. 'We might miss them if we waste time going back.'

'Or we might be wasting time right now,' he said quietly. 'We've been driving in circles. This place is far too big to search house by house.'

'But Al -'

'We could wait until dark,' suggested Samantha's guard from the back of the car. His name was Jeremy, and he remembered Abby. He owed her his life. 'That way, any occupied building will shine out like a beacon.'

Abby fell silent to stop herself from screaming. They might not have until dark, but Al was right - their search was fruitless. They couldn't drive around all afternoon, just hoping for a stroke of luck. Against all her better judgement and every last instinct she had, Abby took the next right turning and brought them onto the road that led back to their house, the place that held a potent mix of good and bad memories. They had forged their deepest bonds as a family there, but had also been torn apart by the conflicts in their world. With this last trespass, Abby was too heartsick to contemplate staying there for much longer; there were plenty of abandoned buildings around - it wouldn't be too much of a chore to find one.

She wasn't paying too much attention as she approached their driveway, until Al stiffened and sat up in the passenger seat. 'Who's that?' he asked, somewhat redundantly.

The sleek black people carrier had turned in just before them, pulling up smoothly to the front door, and it looked to be filled to capacity with people. A panicked noise escaped Abby's throat as she thought of Greg, Sophie and the boys in the house, imagining that the gang had returned to finish the job. She rammed her foot down on the accelerator and screeched into the yard as the driver was alighting from his car.

'Stop right there,' she snarled, throwing herself out of the Landrover and releasing the safety on Greg's pistol as she aimed it squarely at the back of the man's shaven head. 'Not another step.'

The driver let out a low chuckle but seemed otherwise unconcerned by Abby's threat. 'Now Abby,' he said as he slowly turned around, giving her the benefit of his familiar craggy, scarred face wearing a barely-concealed half smile. 'That's hardly a welcome home.'

* * *

><p><strong>Final Note: <strong>Yay! Tom's finally home! Next chapter - he finds out Anya's missing...I think you know what's coming!


	7. Keeping Promises

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Survivors, but I really wish I did.

**Author's Note: **Thanks, Daffy, for my very first review! I'm glad you're enjoying it so far. Bit of an awful chapter to write, this one, but the big reunion is almost here - in typical, dramatic Tomya style, of course!

* * *

><p><strong>May There Never Be An End<strong>

_A Survivors Fanfic_

_Written by Silksteel_

* * *

><p>'I need some sort of alcohol; vodka, whiskey, something like that.'<p>

'Which would you prefer?'

Anya looked incredulously at the young man that had been charged with acquiring medical supplies for her to deal with Danny's injury. 'It doesn't matter,' she told him slowly, enunciating the words for the benefit of his apparent mental deficiency. 'I'm not going to be drinking it.'

The boy mouthed a wordless _Oh _and rifled through what they had to find what she'd asked for. The lady of the house they'd taken over had, fortunately, been one of the strictly practical types with a kit for every eventuality. The first aid box provided her with gauze to stem the blood flow and bandaging for the wound; the sewing basket yielded a needle and the thread necessary for suturing. It wasn't perfect, far from it, and they had no antibiotics, but that couldn't be helped. For the first time in her life, and certainly the first time in her medical career, Anya wasn't invested in the patient. She wondered if this was how Tom felt all the time, completely detached from the people he considered a threat to his survival. The only reason she was participating in the charade was to buy herself a measure of time, to delay Marlon's plans for her. She wasn't naive; she knew exactly what he wanted from her - he'd made that clear enough back at the house - and was astute enough to understand that her life was more important than any possible violation. It was a struggle not to shut down completely; she needed every ounce of cunning she could muster to watch for an opportunity, a momentary lapse of concentration on the part of her captors, anything she could exploit to her advantage.

Danny groaned under her hands as she removed the gauze tamponade to inspect his wound. It was a ragged tear that bit deeply into the muscle; he'd been right - Naj's blow was significant to inflict such damage. Anya couldn't get the image out of her mind, the impulsive anger in the boy's face as he attacked the larger, stronger man with no regard for his own safety. Is that what they'd come to? Abby had said once that Naj was a part of their family with the same rights - did that mean he also felt that he had the same responsibilities? Tom hadn't helped that cause when he taught the boy to shoot a gun. She'd been so furious that day because she hated the idea that childhood wasn't going to be possible for the children of the new world if it remained as hostile as it was. Naj should never have been exposed to all these things; he'd seen far too much death and horror at such a tender age. Of course, Greg might have been dead but for his intervention, so it was a tragedy whichever way she looked at it.

'I haven't anything to give you for the pain,' Anya told her patient distantly as she threaded her needle and poised above the cleaned skin. 'So you need to lie still.'

'_Get on with it,'_ Danny hissed, his hands clutching the undersides of the table, growling with the pain as she took him at his word and began to suture his wound. She took her time, setting neat and tiny stitches that would guarantee an almost flawless heal - if he lived that long. After a while, her patient seemed to exhaust himself so completely that the tension left him and he lay prone, twitching every now and then. Anya could feel the warmth beginning around the site, a sure indication that the infection was setting in. No real surprises there; the crowbar he'd been gored with was teeming with bacteria. It had been used for everything under the sun, from breaking into locked buildings in the city, to beating away intruders in the suburbs, via the odd commission as a mechanics tool.

'Well?' Marlon demanded as Anya finished and placed a sticky bandage over the site, sterilising her hands with the last of the vodka to cleanse them of blood.

'He needs antibiotics,' she said quietly, trying to step away as discreetly as possible, making it look as if she was clearing the area of her tools. 'The infection is already present. If we leave it, he'll die.'

Marlon indicated two of the remaining three members of their group with a finger. 'You two. Pharmacy, now.'

'Penicillin,' Anya added, by way of explanation. 'It'll be written on the box.'

The boy who'd brought her the vodka was to stay behind, and he sat in a corner, smoking a cigarette and sulking, a plank of two-by-four resting across his knees. Anya gave serious consideration to asking him for a tab, but Marlon had other plans for her. As soon as the door banged shut, he grabbed hold of her upper arm in a bruising grip.

'Now,' he murmured, pulling her forcefully around to face him. 'Let's skip to the good part, shall we?'

* * *

><p>Abby didn't know whether to hit him or fold him into massive hug and cry into his shirtfront. The relief she felt at seeing Tom alive and well was unspeakable - especially now, when they were in such turmoil. Fortunately, she wasn't forced to make a decision one way or the other, because Al made it for her, bounding from the car to give the other man a powerful shove that would have sent Tom reeling were it not for his own vehicle.<p>

'You _bastard -_' he railed, anguish in his face. 'Have you _any _idea what you put us through? What you put Anya through?'

Tom gripped the other man by the arms, his expression tightly controlled, unreadable. 'I saw the broadcast,' he said simply, no clue given as to his reasoning or location, the most he could give them being the sheer fact that he hadn't beaten Al to the ground. Restraint was actually one of Tom's better qualities, although it tended to go out of the window where Anya was concerned.

Al slumped in his hold, all the fight seeming to drain out him. 'She's been kidnapped,' he breathed, and Abby thought he should probably have timed it better, and perhaps gotten out of Tom's way, before giving him the information. Too late now. Al winced as he lost the circulation below his elbows.

'Willis?' Tom asked curtly.

'Thieves,' Abby told him with a shake of her head. 'They left one of their men behind, but he's -'

She didn't get even half a chance to finish what she was saying as Tom released Al in an instant and swept him aside without a second glance, striding determinedly up the front steps and into the house. 'Probably dead...' Abby finished in a plaintive murmur, joining Al by the black car as the passenger door opened, and a finely-attired older man climbed out stiffly.

'Well,' he said, looking at Abby through his round, gold-rimmed spectacles. 'I for one could murder a cup of tea. If you'd be so kind, madam.'

* * *

><p>The reactions to Tom's homecoming were varied. Naj was ecstatic, of course. Greg and Abby were relieved. Al simply seemed dazed, exhausted and heartsick. But by far the oddest one, to Sophie's mind, was Peter. The boy took one look at Tom, let out a sort of strangled yelp, and ran from the room as if he was being pursued by demons. In truth, Sophie kind of understood where he was coming from. Tom Price was exactly what she should have expected from a man deemed a murderer and a thief: averaging out somewhere around six feet, he was brawny and menacing, and as of that moment, very, very angry indeed. He burst into the living room and barely glanced the other members of his party, moving directly to where she was monitoring the progress of their injured captive.<p>

'Get lost,' he said shortly, barely gracing her with a glance, and Sophie decided not to argue with him. Although Abby and Anya had mainly focused on the good that Tom did for the group, Al had made an offhand comment about how Anya was the only one who could control him. When she wasn't here, apparently, he was just plain scary. Backing off immediately, Sophie went to stand in the doorway as Tom pulled a pistol from the waistband of his jeans and approached the sleeping prisoner, tapping it with no great care against his cheek.

Jamie woke, startled and disorientated, to find himself staring down the barrel of a nine millimetre. 'What -? Who are you?'

'Where's your base?' Tom asked, his voice taut with the threat that things were going to get worse if he didn't learn exactly what he wanted to know.

The younger man tried to scramble up, but he was still disorientated and dizzy, and Tom raising his eyebrows meaningfully didn't encourage him to go anywhere. 'I already told the woman, the old firehouse,' he muttered, slurring his words slightly with exhaustion.

'It was abandoned,' Al supplied as Tom looked up for confirmation. Abby had already herded the other survivors into the kitchen and could be heard making strained conversation with the new people who'd arrived with Tom. 'We think they might have moved on assuming we'd come after them.

Tom didn't even appear to be listening to Al. Instead, he was looking intently at Jamie as if waiting for the answer to a very important question. The only warning any of them had was the slight deepening of the crease between his eyes, before Tom brought his pistol in a smooth downward arc, pressing the barrel squarely into the gauze patch that covered the wound she'd sewn up, and applying pressure. Jamie's scream made the hair stand up on the back of her neck, and she moved as if to intervene as the wound tore once more and the gauze started to redden - but Al grabbed her and held her fast, shaking his head. 'I wouldn't,' he said under his breath. 'He only cares about Anya right now.'

'Lie to me again,' Tom snarled, leaning over the injured man, intense gaze boring holes right through. 'I dare you.'

'P-please,' Jamie stammered, sobbing. 'Don't -'

She couldn't stand watching it any longer. Her concern was for Anya too, but the longer Tom terrified her patient to incoherence, the longer it was going to take to locate her. Breaking out of Al's grip, she rushed to the head of the table. 'It's alright, Jamie,' she murmured in the same calm tone she'd used to placate him earlier. 'Just tell him the truth. I can't fix anything if he shoots you.' In a way, she almost felt sorry for him. All he'd come for was some food, but had ended up being stabbed, left behind and now tortured.

Tom pressed into him once more, and Jamie emitted a gargled scream, sweat rolling down his grey cheeks, the veins standing out in his neck with the strain. '_Okay_!' he shrieked. _'Alright!_ I'll tell you -' the breath rasped harshly in his chest as he panted and tried to get ahold of himself. 'Number eleven, Platt Lane, behind the church -'

Without even waiting for any further information, Tom spun around and made for the door. Al gave her a significant look before he, too, vanished from the room. She could hear them banging about outside, and the sound of an engine starting. Sophie looked at her patient. 'I hope you told him the truth this time,' she said quietly, unsticking the gauze to survey the damage. 'If he has to come back, I doubt there will be much left of your leg to patch up.'

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><p>Anya stumbled forward, catching herself with one hand on the bedside table as Marlon all but threw her into the bedroom. Her blood ran cold watching him lock the door, then turn around, a calculating look on his battered face. As he unzipped his dirty jacket and shucked it onto the floor, Anya's gaze was darting around the room wildly. 'It's alright darlin',' he smirked, advancing on her. 'If you're good, I might let you live.'<p>

Bile rose in her throat. Grabbing at the ornate lamp off the bedside table, Anya swung it with all her might as soon as he was within range. Only his fast reactions saved the thing from breaking against his skull, catching the impact on his forearm as he shielded himself. Marlon roared in pain, a large piece of china embedded in his arm; she lunged for the door, fingers clumsy on the key and failing as soon as she felt him grab her hair and yank hard.

Anya let out a muffled shriek when he pulled her from the door and threw her bodily onto the musty, crumpled bed. Hot fury and terror were burning a path up the back of her throat; the last time something like this had happened, her assailant was smaller and she overpowered him with the element of surprise - he'd not anticipated her determination to fight back. Marlon was a much larger opponent, and he had her at a positional disadvantage. When he approached the bed, Anya kicked out hard, catching him in the stomach and winding him. She scrambled to get to the other side of the bed, but found herself dragged backwards by her ankles, flipped onto her back and pinned to the bed by the full weight of Marlon's body as he straddled her.

'Where do you think you're going, whore?' he hissed venomously, forcing her hands above her head and holding them there with one of his own. Anya twisted desperately, trying to get herself into a position where she could throw him off. Tilting her head back and to the side she sunk her teeth into the vulnerable, exposed flesh of his arm, biting down as hard as she could. He reared back but didn't let go of her, his free arm swinging around to backhand her hard across the face. A strangled cry escaped her throat, pain blooming along the line of her cheekbone, the whole of her skull vibrating from the impact. Anya didn't want to scream, and she certainly didn't want to give him the satisfaction of crying, but she was starting to get very frightened, breath heaving unsteadily in her chest, a sensation that was almost a sob bubbling up inside her.

Marlon leaned over her, suffocating her with the weight of his body. 'This is going to happen,' he told her, foul breath ghosting across her face as he reached for the neckline of her dress, ripping it down the line of buttons at the front to her navel. 'So you may as well get used to the idea.' Tears were clouding her vision now, making his ghastly features blur in front of her, obscuring the dark leer he wore.

The doorknob rattled.

'_Fuck off, Sid,' _he spat, not pausing for a moment as he transferred his free hand to her throat, squeezing just hard enough to let her know he'd have no qualms about killing her there and then. 'I'm busy.'

_BOOM._

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><p><strong>Final Note: <strong>Why yes, that's exactly what you think it is. Haha! See you next chapter..._  
><em>


	8. Abandonment Issues

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Survivors, but I really wish I did.

**Author's Note: **Sorry about the time delay dear readers. I've been busy dealing with things way beyond my maturity level.

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><p><strong>May There Never Be An End<strong>

_A Survivors Fanfic_

_Written by Silksteel_

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><p>The door handle exploded in a shower of woodchip and twisted metal.<p>

From the moment they found Tom lying by the side of the road, his eyes swollen and reddened from a chemical attack, vulnerable and helpless with his broken ribs, Abby hadn't known what to make of him. Anya - a young, softly spoken, but oddly confident woman - had said it was an accident; Abby had no reason to disbelieve her at the time, but she wasn't so sure now. Tom and Anya, that first encounter on the road had entwined their lives unbreakably, and since Tom had kept her status as a doctor to himself, it wasn't unfathomable that she might've been hiding the true cause of his injuries. The only thing that Abby knew for sure was that, despite their differences as people, despite the unlikeliness of their relationship in any scenario that wasn't the end of the world, the two were destined to see out their lives together. Oh, everyone had suspicions as to the romantic implications of the pairing, but Abby didn't necessarily think it was the primary motivation. Tom was patently in love with her. Nor was

it necessarily one-sided. Much had been made about Anya's guilt, her feelings of responsibility regarding Tom's disappearance, but Abby had never seen her as one motivated by guilt. No, indeed, Abby was quite convinced that the depth of feeling was mutual.

She was also convinced that gunning down every person or inanimate object that posed the slightest threat to Anya wasn't precisely the best way for Tom to show his devotion, but with a shotgun in his hands, she wasn't about to argue.

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><p>Anya had never been happier to hear the sound of gunfire. She made a desperate, shocked noise that tore from her throat when it went off in the doorway, but she could have cried with the relief. Marlon leapt up, pulling a knife from the back pocket of his jeans, seeming to hesitate a moment whilst apparently trying to decide whether to face off the invaders or use her as a hostage.<p>

Those precious few seconds cost him everything. The door swung inwards with a bang; with Marlon no longer pinning her down, Anya struggled into a sitting position, cradling her pounding head in both hands, her chest still heaving with panicked, sobbing breaths. It allowed her to view the two people that had come to her rescue; the man in the lead brandishing a shotgun at Marlon was the last person she expected to see.

'_Tom_,' she breathed, her heart constricting so tightly in her chest that it was momentary agony, and Anya clutched her arms around her disintegrating body, thinking there'd be nothing left if she didn't hold herself together.

He'd come back. He found his way to her at the eleventh hour, once the truth of his words had been proven on a personal level, to rescue her as he always did despite the nonchalance with which she treated her own safety as a result. Anya looked up into his scarred face, at the expression he wore; anyone that didn't fear him right then had no sense of self-preservation. She was familiar with this side of him - it wasn't what she'd seen the day Gavin took her, that closed-off functionality that would result in the death of a man who threatened the safety of the whole group and Tom besides. No, this was more like the church when he'd wrestled John to the floor in a flurry of vicious blows. He was prepared to cut the man's throat, but at her scream he'd looked up, dazed, as if he'd had a lapse of consciousness. It was the only time she'd ever truly seen him lose control.

Until today.

Striding forward, the maligned firearm held crossways to his chest, Tom didn't give the larger man time to react. In a movement so quick she almost missed it, he struck out, felling Marlon with a vicious blow to the side of his head. Anya felt a flash of nausea as she watched him stamp on the prone man's hand, the crunch of breaking bones forcing him to release the knife and try to curl up into a fetal position, a scream bubbling in his throat, stoppered by Tom's boot that had moved to press down on his neck. For a second, Anya genuinely thought he was going to suffocate the man, or crush his throat entirely, but the shotgun slid down in his grip until he held it with one steady hand, poised right above Marlon's forehead.

'Anya,' he said quietly, Tom's rough voice caressing the syllables with a mixture of desperation and relief. 'Are you alright?'

She knew this question, too. It meant _did he hurt you?_ Which, in turn, meant _should I kill him?_ She could have a whole conversation with Tom in three little words, even when they weren't the most significant ones. Vaguely, she felt Abby pulling her into a comforting sideways embrace, lifting her from the bed and onto her feet. The whole time, her eyes never left Tom - she watched as his jaw clenched and the thick vein in his neck pulsed; she watched the tense set of his shoulders and the black that had overwhelmed the intense blue-grey of his eyes; she watched the way his calloused forefinger stroked feather light over and over the trigger, ready to do what needed to be done.

When Anya didn't answer him, Tom looked over at her, and she could feel her lower lip trembling. Her fingers were tangled up in Abby's sweater, holding onto the older woman for dear life. After a moment of scrutinising her, he seemed to confirm something, or to lose what little patience he'd maintained. 'Get her out of here,' he barked at Abby, turning back to his captive. Anya knew better than to be stung by it; he just didn't want her to watch him kill. She looked at him differently after John and he hadn't even technically done much to him. She knew Tom didn't want her to be afraid of him, but she already was.

* * *

><p>The virus had given him so many things. His freedom, rather than a life behind bars. A family that was beginning to accept him as he was. A purpose for his skills that was <em>necessary<em> rather than simply being wrong. And it had given him Anya. Without the virus, they wouldn't have even crossed paths in the street, let alone entertained the idea of a relationship - or started to pursue it. Without the virus, he would never have experienced the exhilarating rush of endorphins he did right then when she looked up at him with those big, trusting doe eyes and whispered his name like a prayer. Berating Al for going soft on Sarah was the biggest single act of hypocrisy he'd ever performed. He was way out of that league by his own admission. That was why he wanted her out of the room. There would be time enough later for a reunion, but for now he didn't want to lose that look she gave him like he'd personally saved the world. He didn't want her to see him take care of the dirty work that would make it possible for her to live without being afraid.

And there was no doubt about it, the thug under his boot needed taking care of. Murderer, thief and petty criminal he might be, but Tom took a very hard line against sex crimes. He'd not intended to speak up the day of his mock trial at Samantha's, but she pressed him with the insinuation that he was a rapist, and his silent intentions had gone to hell. Then she'd tried to use it to provoke him to kill Dexter - not that he needed the incentive. To see Anya scared and bruised and handled against her will by this scrap of human filth was too much; Tom had needed her out of his sight just to regain the control not to beat him into the afterlife with his bare hands.

Releasing the choke hold, Tom didn't waste time letting the man to his feet. Giving false hope was a cruelty peculiar to those who enjoyed killing, and he would not lose himself to that. There was no coming back from it once it happened, and he promised Anya he could change. He would, but not yet. When what he was no longer applied to their lifestyle, when he could be of no more use as a protector, then he would do whatever she needed him to, to fit into her idea of good. But not yet.

Pumping the shotgun, he held it steadily in both hands and took aim. The man was saying something, pleading, begging, but as when Gavin had tried to make a deal with him, Tom wasn't listening. Sometimes all it was came down to _them or him_ and the choice was inevitable. His finger depressed the trigger, a miniscule flutter of movement that had such significant consequences, exploding shrapnel into the man's chest, a thousand tiny points of red flaring through his grey shirt. Tom breathed hard through his nose, shook his head. It was the next best thing to a more intimate kill as he'd done with Dexter; it was better. He didn't feel quite so much like a murderer.

* * *

><p>'We're done here.'<p>

Anya didn't really need him to tell her that; the single, muffled shot she'd heard from within the bedroom announced the same thing quite satisfactorily. She looked up at Tom, at the closed expression on his face and the cool, slate hue of his eyes, and she wondered what it felt like to take a life. It wasn't the same, she realised - her experiences were all helpless where his were empowering. Perhaps that was all there was to it, why he wasn't bothered about killing and she couldn't seem to forget how it was to let someone die.

As he watched her gaze follow the firearm, he leaned it up against the wall behind him and stepped towards her. It wasn't the time or place for an emotional reunion; she knew that much - especially with Abby standing by. Tom had never been entirely comfortable showing the depths of his feelings in front of others, and so when he shrugged out of his jacket and draped it around her shoulders, Anya understood that it was the equivalent of an embrace for him.

'Thank you,' she murmured, eyes flickering down, then meeting back up with his, only vaguely aware of Abby moving a way down the hall to give them the illusion of privacy. 'Again.' What was it now, the fifth time? Anya was beginning to lose count. She wondered whether it made her a liability to the group, her propensity to get captured or lost or threatened. A strange turnabout; she'd been so safe in the old world.

Tom shook his head, an unreadable look in his eyes. She knew what it meant - always did, even though she'd been denying it to herself since the very first serious conversation they'd had in his makeshift gym - and knew, furthermore, that she wouldn't be getting anything out of him until he was good and ready. Now wasn't the time; it wasn't the place. He wasn't calm enough to talk about what had happened and she could see it in the tension of his wide shoulders, the set of his rough jaw. Regardless, his hands were gentle as he turned her in the direction Abby had gone, resting a warm, calloused palm at the base of her spine, grabbing his shotgun in the other hand and escorting her down the corridor.

'There were two others,' she told him as they descended the stairs. 'They went out for medicine about twenty minutes ago.' Things always happened very quickly where Tom was involved, situations progressing at warp speed. Half an afternoon followed by a five-second beatdown with John's commune. Ten minutes in a car with Samantha's goons. A few hours, though they felt longer, buried beneath the rubble of the hospital that it would have taken other men days to shift - if they'd not given her up for dead first. In everything she could say about him, Anya couldn't criticise him for making things happen. He never spent his time moralising or agonising; he never needed a moment to gather his courage; he never gave up, and he would certainly never consider saying goodbye.

'We don't have time to wait,' Tom answered flatly.

Anya, admittedly, wasn't sure what to say to that. On the one hand, she didn't relish the thought of Tom slaughtering the group en mass, but on the other, she wondered if the cycle of revenge would cease to be just because they had won the last round. Appearing to understand where her train of thought was leading her, Tom paused them on the stairs. 'Samantha was playing you,' he told her quietly. 'She was allied with Landry the whole time.'

'That's where you were? With Landry?' His nod explained a lot, and raised even more questions. Anya could feel a headache building, her eyes fluttering shut in an attempt to ease it.

'Later,' Tom told her firmly, getting them moving again. 'I'll answer whatever you want later.' Leaning heavily into him, breathing in the familiar scents of soap and gunpowder, comforted by his pervasive warmth, Anya had no intention of arguing.

* * *

><p>It was Al that drove them home in the end. With Tom refusing to relinquish his grip on Anya, and Jeremy not in a position of trust sufficient not to detour by Samantha's on the way – something that Tom was quite adamant about – the former playboy was the only man for the job. Abby sat in the back with Anya and her self-appointed guard, feeling uncomfortably voyeuristic. It wasn't even that they were <em>doing<em> anything as such; Anya's head was pillowed on Tom's chest as she stared vacantly out of the window at the grey autumn, oblivious to the glances he was shooting her.

Abby tried not to stare, she really did. She missed her husband, but it had been so long now that the memories of him seemed faded and blurry like a photograph left out in the rain. It was merely intimacy she craved, more than anything. The search for Peter had consumed so much of those first months, and the rest were spent in terror of Samantha's government, or Whitaker's plans. Now they had the time and relative luxury of concerning themselves with something other than their imminent extinction, Abby's mind inevitably sought to analyse what human connections she'd managed to make.

She watched as Anya slipped her hand into Tom's larger one as it rested on his thigh. Something in his face seemed to soften then, for a moment almost naked in the raw emotion he expressed at such a simple action. Abby closed her eyes. Luck to them, for all the good it would do. With Tom back so soon and apparently on Samantha's hitlist once more, their plans were going to be thrown into turmoil, putting even more strain on his relationship with Anya.

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><p>Tom half-expected Samantha to be waiting for them when they got back to the house, but fortunately, things were as they had left them. He wasn't in the mood to deal with her particular brand of madness after the entirely too serious situation he'd burst in on earlier, and he just wanted to spend some time alone with Anya before they were forced to run.<p>

As Al pulled smoothly into the driveway, Tom made a face at the sight of the people carrier he'd arrived in, at the thought of the people that were now sitting in their house, milling like lost sheep and waiting for direction. It was just one more thing to do before they cleared out, dropping into Judy's commune with the gift of humanity. A glance at Anya, and a white hot needle of jealousy made him wonder whether it mightn't just be easier to leave the intruders here instead.

Unaware of the expressions he was pulling, Tom looked down into Anya's quizzical face, quickly arranging his features into some semblance of a smile. They were disembarking now, and he helped her down, holding her in close to his body. Lips turning up slightly in a cruel smirk, he raised his eyebrow. 'I told you you'd miss me some day,' he quipped, self-referencing the very first time he set out for Samantha's place. If he'd known then what he knew now, that this tiny woman would hold everything he was in the palm of her hand, he'd not have let her out of his sight for a single moment.

'_Tom,' _she huffed out in that breathy, amused way of hers, pushing stray strands of copper-brown hair out of her face. He remained unrepentant as Anya raised up on her tiptoes and pressed her lips, feather light, to the corner of his mouth. 'Don't flatter yourself.'

Despite it, he fought a grin as they moved into the house together, his hand still wrapped firmly around Anya's.

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><p><strong>Final Note: <strong>Thanks for the reviews/favourites/alerts, I'm glad you're all enjoying this series. Updates might be a little slow due to aforementioned events, and also because of Skyrim. But we'll get there in the end, I promise!


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